The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist Joël Dicker (booksvooks TXT) 📖

in Orphea, I have to replace Gulliver officially. And my choice has fallen on Montagne.”

Betsy was on the verge of tears. “You can’t do this to me, Alan!”

“I can, and I am.”

“You promised me . . . That’s the reason I came to Orphea.”

“A lot of things have happened since then. I’m sorry, Betsy.”

I tried to defend Betsy. “Mr Mayor, you’re making a serious mistake. Deputy Kanner is one of the best police officers I’ve come across in a very long time.”

“What’s it got to do with you, Captain Rosenberg?” Mayor Brown said curtly. “Concentrate on your investigation instead of interfering in something that’s none of your business.”

The mayor turned on his heel and headed for the town hall.

* * *

At the Lake Palace, as in every hotel in the area, most of the guests were leaving, and the manager, ready to do anything to stop this hemorrhage, urged them to stay, offering exceptional discounts. But nobody wanted to be in Orphea, apart from Hayward, who was determined to help with bringing the investigation to a close, and who nevertheless seized the opportunity to keep his suite for a reduced price, now that it was no longer being paid for by the town. Ostrovski did the same.

Charlotte Brown and Samuel Padalin had left to go back to their homes the previous evening, while Bergdorf had returned to the city.

A few miles away, facing Central Park, in Mount Sinai Hospital, Jerry and Cynthia Eden were watching over their daughter, who was now in an I.C.U. The doctor came in to reassure them.

“Mr and Mrs Eden, you should both get some rest. We’re going to keep Carolina in an artificial coma for the time being.”

“But how is she?” Cynthia said, distraught.

“It’s impossible to say for the moment. She came through the operation well, which is encouraging, of course. But we still don’t know if there will be any physical or neurological after-effects. The bullets caused significant lesions. One lung was perforated, and the spleen was hit.”

“Doctor,” Eden said. “We need you to tell us: will our daughter wake up again?”

“If I knew for certain, I would tell you. As things stand . . . I’m sorry, but I just don’t know. It is possible she won’t make it.”

* * *

Betsy, Derek and I were driving along Main Street, which was still closed to the public. Everything was deserted, in spite of the blazing sun. Nobody on the sidewalks, hardly anyone in the marina. The place was like a ghost town.

Outside the Grand Theater, a few police officers were still keeping guard, while municipal employees were collecting the remaining litter, including the souvenirs from the abandoned vendors’ stands, the final testimony to the commotion that had taken place here.

Betsy picked up a T-shirt bearing the words I WAS IN ORPHEA JULY 26, 2014.

“I wish I hadn’t been,” she said.

“Me, too,” Derek said with a sigh.

We entered the building and got to the auditorium, which was deserted. On the stage there was a huge area of dried blood like a lake on a map, as well as medical compresses and sterile dressing wrappings left there by the paramedics. One word came into my head: desolation.

According to the report that had been sent by the doctor who had operated on Carolina, the bullets had hit her from above, at an angle of approximately sixty degrees. That would allow us to determine the position of the shooter in the theater. We set about creating a small reconstruction.

“So, Carolina is center stage,” Derek said. “Hayward is to her left, with Eden.”

I took up position center stage, as if I were Carolina.

“I don’t see how from the seats,” Betsy said, “even from the back of the auditorium, which is higher than the front, the bullets could have struck her at that angle.”

She walked pensively along the rows. I looked up and saw above me a technical gangway that led to the bank of spotlights.

I pointed. “The weapon was fired from there!”

Derek and Betsy searched for a way to get up to the gangway, and finally found a narrow staircase in the backstage area, near the dressing rooms. The gangway went all around the stage, as the lighting required. Once he was up there, Derek aimed at me with his fingers. The angle of fire looked to be right. And it was a relatively short distance. You wouldn’t need to be a crack shot to hit your target.

“The theater was in darkness apart from the spotlights, which Carolina had full in her face. She could see nothing, but the shooter could see everything. There were no volunteers, no technicians apart from those handling the lighting, so he had all the time in the world to go up there without being seen, shoot Carolina at the right moment, then get out of the building through an emergency exit.”

“To get up to that gangway, you have to pass through the backstage area,” Betsy said. “And the only people who could do that had been accredited. Access was strictly controlled.”

“So it must, after all, have been a member of the cast,” Derek said. “Which means we have four suspects: Bergdorf, Ostrovski, Padalin, and Charlotte Brown.”

“Charlotte ran to Carolina after the shooting,” I said.

“That doesn’t rule her out,” Derek said. “She fires from the gangway, comes straight back down and runs to help Carolina. The perfect alibi!”

Just then, I received a call on my cell phone.

I sighed. “Shit, what does he want with me this time?” I picked up. “Hello, sir. We’re in the Grand Theater. We’ve identified the place from which the shots were fired. A gangway that can only be reached through the backstage area, which means that—”

“Jesse,” the major cut in, “that’s why I’m calling you. I have the ballistic analysis. The gun used on Carolina Eden was a Beretta. And get this, Jesse: the same weapon was used in 1994 and two days ago.”

Derek, seeing me turn pale, asked me what was happening.

“He’s here among us,” I told him. “The weapon